


Ashes

by RebelRebel



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Morning, Christmas Smut, Devoted Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, F/M, anidala feels, ben is an idiot, but a lovable idiot, fireplace fun, fireplace smut, just go with it, magic fireplace, magic letters, reverse anidala implied, vague christmas magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 01:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelRebel/pseuds/RebelRebel
Summary: Every day, Ben burned another letter.And every day after that, that same letter somehow showed up back in his mailbox.





	Ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MizuPhoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizuPhoenix/gifts).



> Happy belated Christmas!

Every day, Ben burned another letter.  
  
And every day after that, that same letter somehow showed up back in his mailbox.  
  
He didn't read the letters. Well, he never finished them, anyway. Every time he opened one to start, he saw the same greeting...  
  
_To my Stardust —_  
  
When he read the words, bile burned the back of his throat, and he couldn’t keep reading. So he burned the letters instead.  
  
Or... he thought he did.  
  
True, he couldn't be absolutely certain that the letters he watched smolder and smoke into ash were the same as those that appeared in his mailbox every new morning, but he wasn't an idiot. (Not always. He hoped.)  
  
The paper was too old to be easily replaceable; more parchment than paper, really, and the handwriting was the same — always in a steady, straight hand, written in dark blue ink.  
  
The envelopes were unaddressed but stuffed full of pages and pages of... Well, Ben didn't know. He didn't want to.  
  
He'd moved into his mother's family home in late October, but he hadn't found the letters until after Thanksgiving. He'd tossed the first one into the old fireplace without a backward glance — only to find it whole and unharmed in his mailbox the next morning.  
  
Nearly a month later, and he was holding the latest one. The letter wasn't pristine (it was too old), but it was still perfectly intact.  
  
Ben frowned down at the thing, turning it over in his hands. It was heavy; just like the others, but he was used to their heft by now. He squinted at it, examining every crinkle and crease in the envelope. He couldn't tell a difference.  
  
Sighing, he pocketed it, then turned back up the path. He hadn't had to shovel yet — for December, the weather was uncharacteristically warm.  
  
He glanced up at the massive Georgian manor and frowned. The roof looked ready to cave in, and the paint was peeling. Calling the old house a manor felt better than _mansion_ , because however stately it had been once, it wasn't anymore. Not unless you considered broken stairs and cobwebs covering every inch of the place impressive.  
  
The 100-year-old building had fallen into squalor, and Ben had done nothing to fix it. He wasn't sure if Leia had expected him to or not when she'd left him the place.  
  
_It's yours, Ben. You're the last of this family. The last of —_  
  
He clamped down on the memory, forcing it away. He didn't want to dwell on his mother's final words as he meandered back toward the broken building. He hadn't bothered to put on a coat, and while it was warm for winter, he could taste snow in the crisp air.  
  
"Oi!"  
  
Ben whipped around.  
  
There was a girl next to his mailbox. And she looked... _angry_.  
  
"Me?" he called back. He didn't move.  
  
"Yes, you!" she shouted. She rested a gloved hand on his mailbox, covering up the number.  
  
The girl was getting closer. Were his feet moving?  
  
Suddenly, he was back where he’d been just a few minutes before — standing next to his mailbox. But now there was a girl on the other side of his gate glaring daggers at him.  
  
The word _girl_ was a bit misleading; she was a woman, probably in her early twenties, with brown hair and hazel eyes that sparkled in the morning sunlight. Her mouth — pink, pretty — pulled into a frown as he approached her.  
  
“How are you doing it?” she asked.  
  
Ben blinked.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“The letters.”  
  
He stared at her.  
  
He should turn around and head back inside. Ignore her.  
  
His feet didn't move.  
  
“I don’t know what you mean.”  
  
Her frown twisted into a scowl, and he wondered what her smile looked like.  
  
“Yes you do,” she argued, “Why would you burn them?”  
  
Something like shame curled inside his chest, like a tendril of flame, but he snuffed it out before it could catch. He didn’t like how it was harder to look at her now.  
  
She was too pretty to look so disappointed.  
  
He set his jaw.  
  
“They’re worthless. Why not?”  
  
He spat the words, but she only stared back, searching his face. He’d expected her to turn away in a huff, but she looked... thoughtful.  
  
Finally, she shrugged, then turned to go — back down the street and into the city shaking away sleep.  
  
“Wait,” he heard himself say. She paused but didn’t look at him.  
  
“How are _you_ doing it?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to sound so awestruck, but it wasn’t every day you burnt letters and they came back to you.  
  
She glanced back at him.  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
That night, it snowed.  
  
~+~  
  
The next morning, she was waiting for him.  
  
She was shivering when he approached, despite being wrapped up in the same worn leather jacket she’d worn the day before. That thing really wasn't thick enough for a Chicago winter, especially after the first snowfall.  
  
"What's your name?"  
  
He didn't answer her, just snatched the letter she was holding out of her hand.  
  
Her only reaction was to keep talking.  
  
“Mine is Rey.”  
  
Why was he still standing here? He had today’s letter.  
  
“You’re cold. You should get a better coat. Winters are brutal here.”  
  
The girl named Rey smirked. He still wished it was a smile instead, though he didn’t know why.  
  
“I always manage.”  
  
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded.  
  
“You should read it.”  
  
Ben frowned.  
  
“How do you know I haven’t?”  
  
Rey wrapped thin arms around herself, still shivering.  
  
“I just do.”  
  
He slapped the unopened envelope into his other hand, paper on palm. The sound struck their ears in the early morning chill, but neither of them was spooked into movement.  
  
She turned to go again, and —  
  
“Ben. My name is Ben.”  
  
~+~  
  
She came the next day, and the day after that, always holding the same letter he’d destroyed the night before as if he’d never burned them at all.  
  
Rey asked a lot of questions. Most of which he ignored, but some of her questions were telling. She asked about the house; his family; his job. It was obvious that she didn’t like that he was throwing away pieces of his past; pieces of his _legacy_.  
  
The real question was _why_. What did she care?  
  
By Sunday, he’d decided it was his turn to ask.  
  
“Why are you bringing these back to me? How are you even _getting_ them?”  
  
He didn’t really expect her to answer, but she did. She took her time in doing so, biting her lip against the cold. She drew closer across the iron gate that separated them, almost huddling next to his warmth.  
  
His throat felt tight. She didn’t seem to realize what she was doing, so he said nothing.  
  
And she looked cold.  
  
“They keep appearing in my fireplace,” she explained, looking down at the latest letter in her hand. She wore gloves, but they looked thin, and one had a hole in the right thumb.  
  
“Just like this?” he asked. He raised his eyes from her fingers to her face, and she nodded.  
  
“Undamaged. Whole.”  
  
He covered her gloved hand with his bare one, carefully this time, hoping to put a little warmth back into her fingers. Slowly, he pulled the letter away.  
  
She kept her eyes fixed on him the whole time.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question. Why bring them back?”  
  
Ben wasn’t ready for her small smile. It bloomed like winter into spring on her face, beautiful and bright.  
  
His ears _burned_.  
  
“Someone... or something, maybe... went to the trouble of keeping them from turning into ash,” she said, voice the softest he’d heard it, “Least I could do is make sure they get back to where they’re supposed to be.”  
  
~+~  
  
As December hurtled toward January, the days — and nights — got colder.  
  
Ben built a lot of fires in his mother’s family home, and he burnt a lot more letters.  
  
He was starting to count on always getting them back.  
  
~+~  
  
"Have you read these?"  
  
He expected her to deny it, or to at least look guilty, but she didn't. After all, how else could she have known where to return them to? She could’ve easily read the names inside, then traced them back to the house.

Instead, she just stared at him. Finally, she spoke.  
  
"Yes. And you should, too."  
  
He considered her for a moment, hesitating, heart beating like a drum in his chest, then —  
  
"Would you like to come inside?"  
  
She looked surprised, but not afraid. Ben was used to people being afraid of him, but Rey wasn't.  
  
She nodded, and he opened the gate for her. She followed him up the path, eyes wide at the size of the crumbling manor before them.  
  
"This house is _massive_ ," she murmured, "Have you always lived here?"  
  
"No."  
  
When they reached the double front doors, he held the right one — the one that still worked — open for her. She slipped inside, and he followed.  
  
The entryway was dusty and barren, save for a sweeping staircase in the center. Off to the right, through a large, open archway was the formal living room. Ben shuffled into it and Rey trailed after him, craning her neck to take in all of the ornate details adorning the high ceilings.  
  
The manor had many fireplaces, but none so big as the one anchoring the living room. It was carved from oak but washed a crisp white — or, it had been once. Soot stains marred the once-polished wood, and ash threatened to pile past the grate.  
  
“Is that it?” Rey paused, staring at it. The awe she’d worn in the entryway now looked like something more shrewd; discerning. He stopped studying her when she met his eyes.  
  
He gestured to the threadbare couch across from the mantle.  
  
“D’you —?”  
  
She sat, crossing her long legs. His gaze lingered on a run in her black tights; he could just see a peek of tan skin.  
  
Ears burning again, he averted his eyes, sitting next to her but careful to keep a polite distance.  
  
"When did you move in?"  
  
Her tone was light; conversational. She glanced around the room before she looked back at him for his answer.  
  
"Before Thanksgiving."  
  
"And you inherited it?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"I'm glad you're not one of those flippers," she said, smiling at him again. Something jumped into his throat, and then a chuckle burst out.  
  
"Flippers?"  
  
"You know, like someone who comes into a historic neighborhood like this, buys an older home, then guts it and sells it for a mint," she explained, gesturing around the room, "Don't get me wrong; it's great to restore homes like these, but gutting them should be illegal if you ask me."  
  
"Ah," he said. He didn't tell her that the house was on some sort of historical preservation list. Or that he didn't care what happened to it. He just needed a place to —  
  
Well. He just needed a place.  
  
"So, are you going to?"  
  
"Going to what?"  
  
"Fix this place up," she clarified, scooting closer to him on the couch.  
  
"You're shivering again." He bolted up, then bent down to build another fire. "I told you, you need a new coat."  
  
She muttered something that sounded damning under her breath, but he didn't catch what it was. He ignored it — and her — in favor of starting the fire.  
  
Once flames licked the chimney, he turned back to look at her. She was staring down at the day's letter, brushing the envelope with deft fingers. He hadn't taken it from her yet.  
  
"Ben?"  
  
Hearing her say his name made him want to kneel in front of her; some sort of pious act of reverence. He didn't, of course. He just sat next to her again, still painfully aware that she'd still moved closer, despite the fire bathing them in heat.  
  
"Why did you invite me inside?"  
  
He paused, working his jaw.  
  
"You looked cold."  
  
She shrugged, gifting him another half-smile.  
  
"And — " he cleared his throat, "It's Christmas Eve."  
  
She coughed into her arm.  
  
"Oh. That's right."  
  
He watched her brush a flyaway tendril back from her face; eyes tracing the line of her cheeks, her jaw.  
  
"You said you'd read the letters."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"All of them?"  
  
She watched him closely, hazel eyes seeking his brown ones. What was it about her that made him feel so... made him _feel_?  
  
Ben had vowed to stop feeling. And he had, for a time. Until this house. Until these letters. Until Rey.  
  
"So far. Yes," she confirmed. "Where... Did you just find them here? In the house?"  
  
He nodded. She paused, and the air in the room swelled with _something_ ; like they'd climbed up high somewhere and were about to fall into something terrible or wonderful. Ben didn't know which.  
  
"I think you should read them, too," she said. Her eyes caught his, holding him there.  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
He looked away from her, down at his hands. The skin was white where he gripped his knees.  
  
"Why burn them?"  
  
She lay a hand on his arm. It barely covered the top of his forearm.  
  
"You don't even know me," he murmured.  
  
"I feel like I know you," she said, "How else do you explain this? The letters? You say you burn them, but they show up safe inside my fireplace. Yours, and mine. Doesn't that mean something?"  
  
She was even closer now; practically in his lap, and it felt like something had stolen the air from his lungs. He'd never been more afraid and exhilarated in his entire life, and Ben had tasted so much fear in his thirty years; he knew the stench of it, stale and deathly sweet, like decay.  
  
This was a new kind of fear.  
  
"Rey, I — "  
  
She set the letter aside, then placed both of her hands on either side of his face.  
  
"Let me see something."  
  
She followed the whisper with a kiss. Tentative, testing, but she tasted so good that Ben could've died happy then and there. Suddenly, he was  _starving_ ; a hunger he'd repressed for years — for touch, for _love_ — raced from his heart throughout the rest of his body, crawling to cover every inch of him.  
  
She broke away, and he whispered against her lips, not wanting to let her go.  
  
"Yes," he murmured, breathing hard against her mouth, "It means something. Please, Rey — "  
  
She kissed him again, this time not-so-tentatively, and the hunger eating him from inside had him returning the kiss full-force, drinking in everything she gave him. And now she _was_ in his lap, and he was pressing her body flush against his, and her hands were everywhere and so were his; touches leaving trails of fire where they could find exposed skin. But then, _but then_ the hints of skin weren't enough, and they tore at each other's clothes until they were bare to each other, dragging in breaths between kisses.  
  
They were close, _so close_ , a beat away. Ben hesitated, pressing his palm to Rey's cheek as she hovered over him.  
  
"Rey — "  
  
"Shh," she interrupted, closing her eyes as she leaned into his touch. "Please, Ben. Touch me."  
  
He did.  
  
He drew circles on the flesh of her hips as she sunk down on him, and he brushed broad fingertips against her breasts, coaxing cries from her lips. He stroked the column of her neck, so smooth and beautiful, like the rest of her — beautiful now, beautiful standing on the other side of his gate, angry and aghast that he'd tried to burn away all pain, all fear, all feeling.  
  
She did, too. She gripped his arms and his shoulders and all of _him_ ; forcing groans from the back of his throat all the way into the open air. She combed fingers through his hair, and her fingernails bit at the flesh of his back, mingling pain with pleasure in a way he hadn't thought possible — could he have really lived another day without this? Dead to the world, like the winter swirling outside?  
  
No, no.  
  
_Yes, yes, yes —_  
  
~+~  
  
"Who was Padmé?"  
  
She asked him after, still wrapped together; naked on the rug in front of the fire.  
  
"What?" he asked. He'd been carding his fingers through her hair, rubbing circles into the base of her scalp.  
  
"The woman in the letters," Rey said, voice muffled against his chest, "Who was she?"  
  
Confusion pierced the bliss that had settled over Ben because he had no answer.  
  
He didn't know any woman named Padmé.  
  
"I... I don't know."  
  
Rey glanced up at him, frowning.  
  
"What? How?"  
  
"You must be mistaken," he continued, still holding her close to him, "The woman in the letters is Leia. That was my mother. My dad — "  
  
He cut himself off. Half of his mind was stuck in memory, searching for one word he might've heard as a child — _Stardust_ — but though he could think of sarcastic others ( _Sweetheart_ ; _Princess_ ), that word wouldn't appear.  
  
Rey rose, extracting herself from his arms so she could get a better look at him.  
  
"I'm sorry, Ben, but I'm sure her name is Padmé."  
  
He stared at her. Sincerity and concern danced across the apples of her cheeks, clouding her eyes. He turned away, scoffing.  
  
"No. That can't — that just can't — "  
  
He stood, grabbing his clothes and sputtering. Rey stayed where she was.  
  
"Ben? What's wrong?"  
  
"You have to be wrong," he groused, tugging his pants back on. "This is their house. _Her_ house. It's — they have to be theirs — "  
  
Rey stood, mirroring him as she gathered her clothes together, pulling on her underwear; her tights and skirt, her shirt.  
  
"I told you," she said, "You should read them."  
  
An ugly sound ripped from Ben's throat, and he grabbed the letter where they'd left it on the couch. It shook in his hands.  
  
"I told _you_ ," he growled, "This is trash. It's meaningless; they're all _worthless_. Just like the rest of my family. But you wouldn't get that, would you?"  
  
Rey stiffened, narrowing her eyes.  
  
"Stop," she said.  
  
He should've, but he didn't.  
  
"It's Christmas Eve, and you're here, insisting I connect with letters written by my dead relatives. Why, Rey? Is it because you don't have a family, and you're idealizing mine? Trust me, they would've disappointed you. I don't need to read this garbage to tell you that," he spat.  
  
The words settled like oil over water between them, smothering everything else. Finally, Rey calmly collected her jacket from the couch and shrugged it on. Then, she approached him, putting her hand over his — the hand still clutching the unread letter.  
  
Ben watched her through a haze of anger he'd kept long-dead, and as it receded and a new, gnawing pain spread from his chest down to his fingertips and toes, he knew he was the biggest idiot in the city right now. Maybe the country. Maybe the world.  
  
"Read it."  
  
Her words were hard but quiet. They burned like every letter hadn't.  
  
And then she left.  
  
~+~  
  
When he finally read one of the letters, he picked the one he could now only think of as hers. _Rey's_.  
  
It was shorter than the others; barely a page. His eyes stung as he took in the words.  
  
  
_To my Stardust —_ _  
_ _  
_ _I miss you. Every day, I miss you, and I regret. Oh, how I regret..._ _  
_ _  
_ _This is the last letter I'll write you. It won't mean much if anything, but I hope that by putting these words on paper, it will mean something to you, wherever you are._ _  
_ _I have no allusions in regards to what I did. I am a monster. But you loved me anyway and for that... well, I don't deserve your forgiveness._ _  
_ _  
_ _I will ask anyway, on the eve of my last night on earth, in our home. Will you forgive me, Padmé? Can you?_ _  
_ _  
_ _I can't forgive myself, but then again, you were always a far better a person than I was._ _  
_ _  
_ _I hope you're happy amongst the stars, my love. Someday, I hope I can join you there._ _  
_ _  
_ _I love you. I miss you. I'm sorry._ _  
_ _  
_ _Merry Christmas,_ _  
_ _  
_ _Ani_  
  
  
His fist closed around the parchment. He glanced at the clock situated on the desk in the manor's study; he'd stumbled in here earlier in the evening, looking for a spot far away from the now cold fireplace in the living room.  
  
_12:01 AM_  
  
It was officially Christmas.  
  
Ben drew in a sharp breath, then turned the letter over. Mindlessly, he searched the desk drawer for a pen. After a few seconds of digging around, he pulled one out, then began to write.  
  
That night, he burnt his last letter.  
  
~+~  
  
The next morning, he waited for her at the mailbox. For a long time, he was afraid that she wouldn't come — that she hadn't gotten his letter; or worse, that she _had_ and had decided he was beyond any more of her compassion.  
  
But then she was there, clutching a familiar scrap of paper in her palm.  
  
"I see you got my note."  
  
~+~  
  
It took a little over an hour for them to spread out the mass of letters, arranging them in chronological order by the dates included in the top-right corner of each.  
  
The one Ben had already read was last.  
  
"Are you ready?" Rey asked. His hands twitched on his thighs, but then he looked at her. She was smiling softly; the firelight flickering in her hazel eyes like stars.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Together, they pieced together his grandparents' love story — and started theirs.


End file.
